Years Unlived
by Chronic Guardian
Summary: In the wake of the conflict, a cyborg is left to reflect on her existence. A chance meeting with another misfit helps her sort through her feelings on her handler, herself, and life beyond her contract. Intended as a Stand-Alone One-Shot.


**The Years Unlived**

By Chronic Guardian

Paris... there were a lot of memories tied up in this place. Most of them were fond, others were less than. This was where they'd started the real adventure of their lives. Touring Europe ahead of the war had just been a warm up for what followed after Paris. They sat on a park bench soaking it all in. The crowds, the sights, so much that had changed, and yet so little.

The two watchers were both men, brothers in fact, in their eighties. Active living had kept them out of the retirement home and the kid they'd taken in had kept them out of the graveyard. The boy had been adamant that they live responsibly and take care of themselves while he was around; but the kid was gone to college now and they had some time again to contemplate their lives as the end approached.

"You gonna sit on this bench all day?"

The younger of the brothers squinted through his spectacles at the question. Compared to the light hum of french that flowed in the streets, his brother's southern states English was harsh, to say the least. He shrugged after a moment. "I guess so. It's not that bad to slow down once in a while."

Hubert "Hub" McCann grunted and stretched his shoulders. "Figured you'd say that. I can slow down when I'm dead. There's a lot we still hafta do."

His brother, Garth, smiled to himself and slowly shook his head. "Not much we 'hafta' do, Hub. Just a lot we wanna."

Hub issued another grunt and got up. "Fine, suit yourself. I'll be back for ya in an hour. Don't be gettin' into trouble."

The remark evoked a chuckle from Garth. "No worries. That's always been _your_ job, not mine."

Ignoring his brother, Hub McCann began to walk the streets of memory. His aching joints seemed to draw new strength from the forgotten walkways of youth. He had a cane with him, on the kid's insistence, but he wouldn't dare let anyone see him using it. Hub was a man of strength and pride. If he could get by without something he didn't want, then he would.

}{

"Rico?"

A blonde girl just at the verge of her teenage years paused and turned to her companion. "Yes, Signore Jean?" She responded in Italian, their native tongue.

"The doctors have advised I let you have a vacation from work for awhile," the man by her side, mid thirties and also brilliantly blond, informed her as he lit himself a cigarette. "I've got a meeting with some of our international contacts. Once we're in the building Ferro can handle security. Why don't you... take a walk or something?"

"...Alone?"

The blond man, Jean Croce, gave her a look that most interpreted as a glare. "Will that be a problem, Rico?"

"No, sir," she answered quickly.

"Just make sure to be back at the building within an hour. I don't want to spend the rest of this trip looking for you."

"Understood, sir," she smiled and threw a salute.

"...Don't do that," Jean muttered, looking away as he exhaled smoke. "It reminds me of Jose."

Rico nodded and tried to assume a more natural stance. How a cheerfully executed military action reminded Jean of his brother was beyond her, but after recent events it was best not to ask and just to guess. Jean didn't like to talk about his brother, especially now that Jose was dead.

As they approached their target location, they waved goodbye to each other. It was something they rarely did, and not just because they were almost always together. Rico watched Jean's back until he was completely inside before turning away and beginning to wander down the sidewalk.

The city welcomed her with open arms and a brilliant array of scents and colors befitting the autumn season. Normally, she would be watching every window and analyzing every face in anticipation of a threat; but without Jean to protect and her old life slowly fading as peace returned to Italy, it seemed her soul simply wished to soak in the stream of the civilization. Besides, she hadn't taken any conditioning in over a week which was messing with her capacity to focus. Due to a temporary hold on her access to the drug, she was trying to ration it out a little.

She tried to note landmarks along the way so she could find her way back when her time was up. It wouldn't be prudent to upset Jean right now. Soon though, she found herself more watching the crowds than her surroundings. As usual, the people here were different from her. The life of the city, the warmth, the sounds, it was all so foreign. Now that her focus was drifting she could practically feel the pulse of the social weave as each element vibrantly intertwined with the next. But the more she looked at it the more she realized that her thread simply didn't fit the pattern.

The girls in their skirts and dresses were a stark contrast against her khaki cargo pants, never mind that they were tailored to fit her dimensions specifically. Jean had let her wear a dress once for a mission. She couldn't get used to the breezy feel it left around her legs but she liked how it swished and flounced when she moved.

At least her black turtleneck sort of fit in. Some of the other girls wore turtlenecks, but most fit better than hers, which was cut a little roomy to accommodate combat maneuvers. Not to mention the tags designated it as a male's design.

Rico tried not to let it bother her. The familiar feeling of her CZ-75 pistol pressed against the small of her back reminded her where she belonged. Jean had said that the end of the conflict against the Padania meant she could turn in the firearm, but Rico had chosen against it. She'd won her freedom with the Czechoslovakian gun, it was part of her identity now. Even when there was no more fighting to be done she would always be Jean's little sister, the other half of their fratello.

And yet... now that it was all over, she found herself wondering if this really was the border of her existence. She'd never been like other girls. Born quadriplegic, her younger years had been spent bedridden in a hospital, waiting to die. When Jean and the Social Welfare Agency discovered her, they'd lifted her from that lonely place and given her a new, cybernetic body that worked.

They'd also given her the job of ending the Padania terrorist movement.

There had been a few other girls at the Agency. Cyborgs, she meant. But... most of them were gone now. Henrietta, Triela, Beatrice, Angelica... all gone.

Besides, none of them were quite like her.

When the girls became cyborgs, the process usually wiped away the memories of their old lives. For some odd reason, that didn't happen to Rico. For Jean's purposes, that was fortunate. Rico remembered the pain of her old body, how it hurt so much just to live. She would give anything not to have that life back.

Some people seemed to regret the decision of the cyborgs. They had been designed as tools of slaughter; to be immune to the stresses that would plague a fragile normal mind placed into the same conditions. In return, they became inhuman. Maybe not necessarily something less, but definitely not something more. Rico didn't mind though. She was different now, but she was better than she had been.

And she still wasn't like other girls.

It didn't help any that Jean seemed irritated just by the fact that he'd been forced to choose a girl for his partner. Rico didn't see it so much at first, but she'd slowly come to the realization that Jean's habits of only buying her boy's clothes and keeping her hair bobbed extra short were not duplicated by any other handlers in the Agency.

Still, he'd given her a name and a body that worked. For that she was grateful.

Rico sighed and thrust her hands into the pockets of her knee length coat. She would never be normal. She accepted that. She accepted everything she'd done to get this far in life. But watching all the people around her... all those smiles. That girl sharing a drink with her friends at a cafe, that man walking his dog, that couple who held hands as they strolled down the leafstrewn sidewalks. Sure, not everyone was smiling, but Rico was used to being far more isolated in her cheerfulness. Here it was so alive.

Rico preferred smiling. Jean never smiled. For Rico, smiling was a silent act of gratitude, thankfulness for all the great wonders of life. For eyes that had been locked away in a room for eleven years, the world held more things to be thankful for than most people knew.

A rough, non-french voice broke her reverie. "Hey, son. Where are your parents?"

"Huh?" She blinked, disoriented for a moment. Thanks to her cybernetic enhancements, she could hear most of the conversations going on around her. Most of them drifted in volume as her proximity shifted. This one seemed steady, tracking her movement.

Her eyes refocused and she looked up at who she supposed was the speaker. He was an older man, looking right at her. Not a local, judging by his looks. He wore an old, puffy jacket that hid away whatever additions age had been making to his midsection and an old beanie that fit neatly over his head and hung down right above his gnarled gray eyebrows. His silver mustache was down turned in a cantankerous, slightly open-mouthed frown as he regarded her with tired, sunken eyes. Suddenly, his eyebrows rose and his sun speckled cheeks colored dimly.

"Oh... yer a girl, ain't ya?"

She nodded, now certain he was addressing her. "Yes sir."

"So then what are you doin' wanderin' around alone like that?" the old timer demanded in English, returning to his previous displeased expression.

"I... they let me," she tried to respond cheerfully. In Rico's experience, people liked happy children better; they let them go without asking questions. "My parents, I mean."

"Huh. Some parents..." the man grunted and adjusted his jacket. "Jus' like Mae did with Walter."

"...What?" Rico responded against her better judgment. She loved stories, but contact with people outside the Agency was usually forbidden. On missions, anyway. They hadn't actually told her any protocol for everyday situations. In the back of her mind, she wondered if the rules had changed now that the conflict was over. Still, the sooner she ended this conversation, the better.

Even if this man was interesting.

She was used to being invisible to grown ups, mostly because she never had time for them. Well, except for Jean and a few other exceptions; but for the most part, Rico was either being shot at or ignored by them.

Frankly, she liked being ignored better than being shot at.

"Nothin'," the man sighed after a moment. "Just a wild niece of mine who wouldn't watch out for her kid."

"I'm sorry," Rico told him sincerely. She didn't know much about social interactions, but apologizing when bad things happened to other people was usually acceptable. Besides, her English wasn't good enough to say anything more complicated. "Are they... okay now?"

"...What do you care?"

She tried to contemplate the question. Cyborgs usually weren't asked their opinion. Rico wasn't at any rate. Jose used to ask Henrietta all sorts of strange questions. Sometimes Rico would wistfully wonder if Jean would ever be like that. When she realized she didn't have any answers for them though, she'd decided she was better off with a handler who didn't ask.

"I don't know," she admitted, looking him straight in the eye as she said it. "Isn't it right to ask?"

The man blinked. "Hmm?"

"Er... nobody ever told me different, anyway." Maybe she should just let it go and start walking again. Her logistical side was all for it. But something else inside also said to stick with this man and try to understand the challenges he presented. She wasn't usually very good at psychologically based challenges, especially in another language, but her time with Jean had taught her that challenges were good. They were the stuff that made people grow.

"Listen kid," the man addressed her, placing his hands on his hips. "Sympathy's nice and all, but sometimes givin' folks their space is... well, some us have lived a little too long to be dumpin' all our worries on everyone else like a buncha crybabies."

"I understand," Rico told him. She understood most of it anyway. He was talking with a different dialect than the one she'd learned. English hadn't been high on the Agency's list of required languages to learn.

"...And ya still wanna listen?"

Despite her professional sense practically screaming at her to just shut up and keep walking like Jean told her, she nodded.

His tone dropped to one Rico only sometimes heard. Ridicule, if she remembered right. Or maybe it was disbelief. "You still wanna listen to a wrinkled old windbag like me?"

"Y-Yes." Her resolve on the matter was beginning to crumble a little, but she still clung fast. After all, she'd spent most of her life clinging to the light of things hoped for. First just mindlessly struggling day by day to survive, then waking up every morning praying her body still worked. Rico knew little of security, but she knew plenty about refusing to give up.

"Y-yes?" he mimicked her. "What? Are you scared of me?"

"No." She answered simply. In all but the most dire situations, she could recenter and find her core. Jean's training had done that much for her at least.

The man took her seriously. In a way, he reminded her of Jean. She'd never imagined Jean growing old, but if he did she felt he'd be sort of like this man. Except... maybe a little less antagonistic. With the Padania gone, Jean's general mood had shifted into a neutral, if austere, one. All the raw hatred he'd harbored was spent.

That's what it was about this man, she realized, he was spent, worn out. He'd ridden life's train to the end of the tracks. And, despite the age difference, it seemed the same was true of Jean.

She wondered if it was also true of her.

Rico was barely fourteen, but her body wouldn't be developing any further. Something about cybernetics procedure stunted her growth. She had barely grown half an inch since eleven, when she'd first been fitted with the marvelous, liberating limbs that worked. Of course, she'd rather be short and standing on her own feet than tall and lying in a hospital bed; but sometimes she wondered what she'd be like, if she might have been beautiful and tall one day. Assuming she would've lived that long. She probably would've been dead by twelve if she'd stayed.

Now she'd be dead by twenty if she was lucky.

The conditioning process, though necessary for the proper installation of cybernetic parts, had a tendency of shortening its patient's life span. Somewhere buried in her subconscious, Rico acknowledged that she probably only had a couple more years left to live but she didn't really have the time to be depressed by it. She could cry when she was gone. For now she wanted to just live.

She didn't want to be spent already.

The old man regarded her with his almost-white, grayish-blue eyes, eyes that seemed blinded by a lifetime of who-knew-what, and began his story.

In a way, it really did remind her of herself. He'd spent a good portion of his life protecting his brother, just like she had. He'd fought in wars where he felt alone, just like she had. But he'd also loved and lived with a fire so bold that only a cinder of it could now be seen in his mortal frame. Rico didn't know about love or fire. She knew quiet and empty. She knew the second half of his life.

That almost made her sad. But she'd experienced worse. Knowing she'd skipped out on the middle portion of her life and gone straight to the end wasn't as bad as thinking Jean was dead from a bullet she fired, or wondering if her body would be "decommissioned" with the end of the SWA. She was still alive, even if she was in the autumn of her existence. Winter had yet to strike.

Halfway through the story, they'd drifted to a bench facing toward the street. The park was behind them and its trees showered small leaves that fluttered down on the wind. The man's story was getting good now. It was about a boy, the boy he'd mentioned earlier, whose mother didn't know how to care for him. The boy grew up lonely and skittish and didn't have much direction to his life. Up until he met his uncles, grand uncles to be precise.

With his uncles the boy found a rough but secure life. They were old, and didn't much know how to care for a child. But they were there, and that was what he needed. Seeing that young life stabilize, learn, grow, and become new, had an impact on the uncles, the one Rico was talking to specifically. It made them realize there was still life to live. Even if the rest of their family, or even the rest of the world for that matter, thought they were crazy old fools best left alone until inheritance came into question, the boy needed them to live. He needed them to keep going because he couldn't live it alone yet. He needed someone safe.

Now Rico wondered who Jean reminded her more of, the old man or the boy.

Jean wasn't helpless, and to all but the most practiced of eyes he was self sufficient in every aspect of life. But Rico knew something gnawed at him, something he wouldn't dare face except for in the privacy of his own mind. Before the Social Welfare Agency, Rico didn't know much about Jean's life. He'd been a member of the Carabiniere, a guardian of Italy, ready to marry before the incident struck. That was another thing Rico only knew snippets of: the day of the Croce incident, the death of his parents, sister, and fiancee.

The day that changed Jean.

Because of that day, Jean had joined the Social Welfare Agency, chosen Rico, and hunted down the Padania terrorists until they were all dead. Because of that day, Jean was no longer a man who wanted to have a family, a wife—or maybe even children. A shadow had fallen over his dreams for the future and turned them into burning embers of revenge, each to be snuffed out until he was alone in the dark of his mind.

Jean wasn't safe, not in his head. Italy was safe. But not him. He was alone and left over and broken down before he even began. Sometimes he seemed like a boy in man's clothing more than Jose had. Other times he looked hollow beyond his years. He was a little better now that the Padania were dead, but he was still a haunted man yet to be delivered unto new life. Just like Rico had waited for deliverance from the empty white folds of the hospital.

Rico thought that was the part of the man's story that clicked and caught in her head. The part about changing where the shy boy became a bold man and the bitter uncle became a loyal guardian. Other people probably wouldn't think so, but Rico liked to believe that the SWA had given her that sort of change. It wasn't perfect, but it was a beginning.

And then here she was. The work was done, the storm was over, and she sat still as Paris in autumn wove around her. Life hadn't been lived out, but it wasn't over.

She wondered for a moment if the other girls would've felt this way.

Finally, he ended with a little speech. His "what every boy needs to know about being a man" speech. Rico had reminded him that she wasn't a boy but he'd gone ahead with it anyway, saying it may help her understand a thing or two.

It did help, a little. It didn't describe Jean much, but it talked about what it took to have courage and why it was so important to think and act, even if it was done in secret. It talked about honor and other things Rico had only heard about in passing.

The last part was about aging. About how when you became a man you could never be a boy again. There were some lines that, once crossed, were forever set. But even in those moments, even in those could've-been years, there wasn't a complete loss, but rather a trade.

Rico wanted to say it made sense. In her heart it did. Her head wasn't so sure. But, as the man had covered earlier in the speech, "Sometimes the things worth believing in, the things worth fighting for, aren't the things everybody says are true". So if that were right, then so was this. She'd traded an empty life for a hard one. One where she killed and shivered and hurt, but one where she lived. In comparison to her "peers", there were many years she wouldn't live because of it. But even if there was a way for her to become a "normal" cyborg, one that didn't kill and just went to school like other girls, she wasn't so sure she'd have chosen it. By the time she was eleven, it was already too late: she'd already been chosen for another life.

They'd both gone silent and were simply watching the hovering blanket of gray clouds that covered the sky unclashing, waiting asleep for the moment to draw back and reveal the sun again. The man, the uncle from the story, hrumphed and sighed a little but otherwise just breathed long and rich breaths. Rico tried to do the same.

The taste of the air was a little moist, but well spiced with the scents of the surroundings. Rico relished it as it filled her artificial lungs and passed back out through her carbon fiber jaw.

Renewed, she got to her feet and looked back down the street, wondering how many turns she'd made to get to her current position. The man also got up and nodded. They mumbled a goodbye to each other and parted ways.

Jean was waiting for her when she got back, smoking another cigarette and watching the road behind his impenetrable shades. She expected him to scold her a little, considering she was seven minutes late, but he simply turned around and began back towards the car they had arrived in.

"Did you enjoy your walk?" he asked quietly as she matched his step.

Rico lifted her head a little to smile up at her handler. "Yes, signore."

"Good," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think I could take another walk some time? I... if you don't need me, that is?" Chances were low that she'd run into the same man again, but she'd like to remember the occasion by reliving it in her own way.

"We'll see." Jean's pitch discouraged the notion that it would happen.

"...Alright, sir."

They arrived at the car and got in. Jean's hand froze on the ignition and he almost sighed lightly.

"Rico."

"Yes, sir?"

"You know what I think of you cyborgs. What I thought back during the conflict, right?"

She nodded. Jean's preferred metaphor was that of a hunting dog.

An expendable hunting dog.

"It's over, Rico." He passed over to her a document dated on the current day. "Read it."

The car rumbled to life and she immediately followed the order as they passed through the city and into the french countryside. She stumbled through the legal wording until her mind grew numb with the process and her eyes simply traced the lines and picked up what they could. At the end she looked hopefully over at Jean for some form of explanation.

"I'm sorry, Rico," he said. Although her auditory implants registered otherwise, it seemed his voice was absent of some of its accustomed roughness. Jean never apologized, not to humans and certainly never to cyborgs. "It's the best we could come up with."

"It's okay," she told Jean, offering a small smile.

"Our next vacation will be around Christmas. If you want something you'll have to file a request with me."

She hugged the paper to her chest. "That's alright sir, I think I've got all I'll need."

Why the paperwork couldn't be completed on Italian soil, or why it needed to be done at all, was beyond her. But Rico didn't care. It was nice to have them spell out that it was a new beginning.

"Jean?"

"Yes, Rico."

"Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted."

"I forgive you."

"...Thank you, Rico."

Her years were limited, but she would make the best of it. Rico Croce smiled at her now officially adoptive brother that she was still sworn to protect and aide. Perhaps not from the searing lead of his adversaries, but from harm all the same. She would be content to live out the rest as his cyborg, as his sister; learning, healing, and living right beside him.

}{

~Author's Note:(skip for full emotional impact)~

Alright! So this time I tried to do the whole "newcomer friendly" style of writing where the story can be read as a standalone. Since I don't fancy myself to be any good at it, any feedback on the matter is appreciated. I admit, I finagled the timelines to make this one happen since the brothers McCann probably were dead before the end of the Gunslinger Girl saga; but I felt that the two together were an interesting comparison. Because this is already AU, I ask that you excuse minor alterations I've made to the timeline (and characters) to bring about this meeting. As usual, my fascination with Rico probably blurred the lines a little, but I do hope it was still enjoyable enough for you to read (and possibly review).

Finally, I don't usually do disclaimers but in case being a Fan Fiction wasn't enough of a tip off: the stories this tale is derived from are not my intellectual property. Anyone who thinks otherwise should consult a friend on the definition of Fan Fiction.

Till next time!

-CG


End file.
